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by putthatbottledowngrantaire



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Post-The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:51:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/putthatbottledowngrantaire/pseuds/putthatbottledowngrantaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides after almost four years away from London that it is time to return home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

Once Sherlock had decided that it was time to return home, there were a number of things that needed to be done.

Going back to London meant that he was surrounded by people who possibly new his name or his face, who possibly recognised him as the man that dominated the blogosphere and the front page for a number of weeks before, and after, his apparent suicide.

It was different when he was in France or Germany, or when he spent those nine months in Australia.  The people were different and no one really cared who Sherlock was or why he appeared in the British media.  He was a non-event to most other parts of the globe.  It was nice, he thought initially, being nobody again – just being another face in the crowd as he had spent so many years of his consulting detective career.  In other countries he could walk down a street and not be mobbed by reporters or photographers, he was just one of seven billion people on the planet trying to live on this planet and fit into society, like a colony of ants in a nest – scurrying from one place to the other, fitting into a larger scheme or machine that plodded on its merry way.  The normality of his life was boring and monotonous, but it was required in the part that he played.

After a time though, it became excruciating.  He was unable to assist in cases; unable to find them lest he stick his head too high up out of the sand and one of Moriarty’s men was lying in wait.  He slipped back into old habits.  His smoking picked up again, going off the nicotine patches completely; 7% became his acquaintance once again to relieve the strain of boredom on his mind.  It was like a coil, wound too tight and ready to burst.  He could feel it behind his eyes growing ever tighter a sensation that he hadn’t felt in a long while; that he didn’t feel when he had the company of his doctor.

John.

He let his thoughts linger there for a moment before shaking it off.  He tried to not think about him too often, but sometimes his self control on the matter slipped and he couldn’t help but remember.  It was another addiction to add to his list of vices; almost as unhealthy as the others. 

That was why he had to return home – the coil was pulling him back.  Self control was never his strongest feature.

It had been years, Sherlock decided, and most people had long forgotten the whole issue, going back to worrying about crooked politicians and their secret love children, and which celebrity is dating which other celebrity – all that nonsense that entertained ordinary people wanting to escape their ordinary lives.  Sherlock usually scoffed at them, still did; but at least it allowed him to fall out of the tabloids and out of people’s minds.

Firstly, the looks had to change.

The dark locks had become part of people's attraction towards him during his rise to fame and grace. He didn't understand it. It was simply easier for him to not visit a hairdressers, he had other things to be worried about; more important things than how his hair looked.  He just let it grow like that; until of course, John would make an appointment at the salon down the road, getting fed up with Sherlock’s lack of personal consideration, and forced him to go there - something about colonies of mice living in it or some other exaggeration.  He would go and get it trimmed, tuning out the mindless drawl of the woman cutting his hair, and return to the flat where John would appraise and approve his healthier and more tamed hair, and be satisfied for another few months.

He caught himself remembering again.

The opposite direction to the brooding curls, he thought, again brushing off the memories.

Red. Light red. The bottle he had found at a supermarket in the US and decided that that would be a suitable colour to change to. The shade was immaterial in the end, the change was the necessity.  People were rarely for fine details; the alteration would be enough for the general population.

The length too had to change. He had it trimmed much shorter, though it seemed that without shaving it off, there was no way for Sherlock to rid himself of his irritating curls; ones he had had since childhood.  His new hair fell over his forehead and the short ends of it tickled the back of his neck.  There were times that he considered shaving all of it off, he at the end of the day even he had to admit to small vanities.  And he would hate to think of Mycroft’s reaction if Sherlock came back to London bald.

Mycroft knew that his brother was still alive.  He figured it out very soon after the incident and helped Sherlock leave the country.  He had orchestrated a short investigation into the suicide and the events leading up to it, like a puppeteer with his marionettes, controlling the flow of information and its presentation to the media and the public.  Very few of the details were known to anyone and only he and Sherlock knew all that transpired on the roof of St Barts.

It had been three years since the two brothers had laid eyes on each other.  Mycroft sent the occasional message to Sherlock when he could locate him.  Usually just saying where a member of Moriarty’s global web could be found.  No news was shared as to the state and location of John and the others – though no news between the brothers was considered good news.

It had been four years since the two brothers had laid eyes on each other but Mycroft never attempted to meet Sherlock face to face.  He respected his brother’s decision to leave and his brother’s need for space.  So space, for once, he was given.

As is the most obvious part of any disguise, the dress sense had to change too. This one had to be more of a conscious decision on Sherlock's part. The things he felt most comfortable in would no longer suffice. He had to tone down the 'Sherlock'. He had to portray that he was ordinary.  No-one special.  He was no longer Sherlock Holmes.  Jeans, t-shirts, hoodies - this was what made up Sherlock's wardrobe these days.  Although, it was more of a suitcase than a wardrobe; travelling light was the best way to go as he was constantly moving to ease the monotony and chase down leads on the consulting criminal’s network.  Once a threat was eliminated, he moved again; ever vigilant and on his toes.  It was exhausting, but necessary.

Sherlock did what was necessary.

 

 

***

 

 

When the network was entirely dissolved, or as much as was possible, Sherlock had completed his goals to allow his return to London.  It was safe enough to go back; the situation was never going to get any better.  Moriarty meant nothing anymore – it meant as little as Sherlock Holmes.  It was simply a long forgotten title.

He didn't stop to think what Mrs Hudson was doing, what had become of the flat, if Scotland Yard would once again solicit his assistance; he couldn’t stop to think about these things, though he always found them in the back of his mind.

However, on the plane from Rome to Heathrow Airport, all the repressed thoughts thrust themselves into the forefront of Sherlock’s mind.  He cursed the day that smoking on planes was outlawed.

All the people he left behind ran around in his head, most of all John.  He knew that John was still alive.  And that was really the only thing that made Sherlock care.

He was adamant that he and John should not meet again; he couldn’t decide whether that was selfish or not.

Part of Sherlock hoped that John had left London in the years that he had been away.  That John had met someone and had a family and a dog and a white picket fence and a people mover.  Though, the other part of Sherlock, a significant and vocal part, whispered that he hoped John was still in London, still waiting for him – still believed in him.

He had tried so hard to remove Watson from his mind; to pretend that he – like astronomy and politics – was not important, but not matter how hard he tried, he couldn't do it to the memory of his best friend.

It was physically impossible.

The friendship that the two had forged was seared into Sherlock's mind, like nothing else ever had been before. John's memory burned brighter the more he tried to cover it over with information about tobacco blends or the secrets that handwriting can conceal.

Sherlock would just have to deal with something in his mind aside from his work. It was new. But Sherlock discovered that he did not mind that memories. They made him happy. Almost as happy as seeing the blank faces of those in the room around him when he was called in on a case, or the looks of shock and admiration that sometimes came along with deductions and results. It was better that any stimulant that he could find, the heroin couldn't match it. The drugs and tobacco had become dull and Sherlock for the past few months had found himself addicted or attracted to those things anymore – he was still addicted to remembering.

Yes, he was adamant that he and John _should_ not meet again.  But Sherlock couldn’t help but want to.

 

 

***

 

 

Fairly soon after Sherlock landed at Heathrow, he answered a call from Mycroft, welcoming him home. He realised that he was once again under surveillance the moment that he left the airport and hailed a taxi. The men that Mycroft sent after Sherlock were never the most inconspicuous men. He supposed his brother thought it funny or something like that. Bloody Mycroft.

At least he already had somewhere to live in London.  It was an old flat – one that he had bought before moving into Baker Street with the doctor, and one that he had been renting out after he moved to 221b.

It was familiar and plain.  It had no memories built into it; the flat wasn’t personal – it had a kitchen and a bedroom and a living room, all sparsely furnished and enough for him to live. 

It was a picture of Sherlock in years past and was miles away from Baker Street.

He wasn't risking it; wasn’t risking living close to John – though that voice in his head was whispering that simply coming back to the city was a risk, and that it was one he was more than willing to take.

There was a park nearby that Sherlock recalled walking through occasionally to meet with his Irregulars.  Fairly soon, he developed a habit of walking out into the park, choosing a bench and sitting behind a paper, deducing the people walking past.  It wasn’t even something that he consciously did; one day Sherlock just noticed that he was spending more and more time in that particular park, sitting and watching.

He had soon discovered that Lestrade was keeping John in the loop at Scotland Yard, allowing him to help with the occasional case.  Sherlock felt a rush of warmth in his stomach at the news and an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards Lestrade, though it meant that he couldn’t return to the Yard.  Not yet.

And so he sat on a bench in the park.  And watched.  And remembered.

 

 

***

 

 

It was another dull day. Not many people chose today to head out into the park.  It was overcast and the middle of the working day.

Walking amongst the trees and bushes today were two members of his surveillance team from Mycroft – two overly large men, with sunglasses and hidden devices in their sleeves and ear wigs (that were not as hidden as they thought they were). They were both armed, one packed a pistol on a ridiculously visible holster at his waist and the other, who was clearly the more intelligent of the two and the other's superior, had a gun at both his ankle and at his waist. The men themselves – relatively uninteresting.

The superior was married, nagging wife who doesn't want children. He had a medium sized dog which Sherlock was fairly sure was a Labrador – a gentle and kind enough dog for the wife (who had turned the dog into the only child that she ever wanted) while at the same time being a manly enough dog to not embarrass the tough husband (who imagined the dog was the son he wished for).

The other man – gay, still in the closet – was extremely happy that he was put on the team to follow Sherlock around. He would be disappointed though, not really Sherlock's area.  Maybe that was another sick joke of his brothers.

Only three other people were in Sherlock's eye shot. A man – mid to late 40s, three children, married, didn't live near this park; reaffirmed in Sherlock's mind when he deduced that the woman he was with was not married and was, in fact, his mistress. She was divorced; he was soon to be.

And then there was a teenager – a girl, daughter of a single parent (Sherlock suspected a widower but he couldn't be completely sure at this distance), she was skipping school and just as uninteresting as the rest of the subjects available for observation.

He returned to 'reading the paper'.  In actuality he couldn't care less, but he would run his eyes back and forward across the page while withdrawing from the world and running through past cases and boxing techniques for tonight when he would go to the gym and beat some man who favoured their chances of succeeding against this sharp-edged, thin man.

Behind his thoughts, Sherlock was vaguely aware of something at his feet, playing with his shoes. He raised the paper off his thighs so he could see his feet and only then realised that there was a child playing with his shoelaces.

One shoe had completely lost the lace, the boy – no older than two, maybe two and a half if he was big for his age – was busily working away at the other lace, though not very efficiently, his frustration rising with each failed attempt to undo the double knot tying the lace in the neat bow.

And now that Sherlock was actually aware of what was going on around him, dragged out of his revelries by the tugging at his laces, he heard it.

And it terrified him more than anything else he had ever experienced.

'Sherlock!'

That familiar voice. Saying his name. no question who it was, no need for Sherlock's extraordinary mind or memory.   The recognition of the name was a reflex action. Sherlock's entire body clenched and tightened, his hand scrunching the side of the newspaper.

John couldn't know he was back; he had no way of knowing he was back – Sherlock was too careful for that.

He was suddenly embarrassed by his actions.  For leaving, for running.  He spent so much time being proud – that he was doing this for the people he loved, for the people he cared for – but at the sound of his name in John’s voice, the blood rushed from his face and he felt more guilt than he ever had in the years he spent away.

He couldn’t look John in the eye.  He couldn’t.

How had John recognised him? He had changed himself, the way he talked, walked, looked - he knew that his disguise was good enough. And he had the newspaper in front of his face, hiding his prominent cheek bones and his angled face. Only his eyes remained over the top of the paper, the piercing eyes that intimidated, shocked, scared, intrigued, attracted created reactions that varied as much as the eyes themselves did, never constant or settling on a colour.

From over the paper, John came into sight. He was limping again. He was moving as fast as he could towards Sherlock's bench, his shoulder getting more and more sore with the extra strain that he was putting on it with the cane in his hand – the faster he tried to move, the slower he became, not being able to use his cane as well with the increasing pain in both his arm and leg.

Sherlock gave another glance at the boy at his feet, who had now defeated the double knot and was feeling very proud of himself.  The child looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock knew those eyes, he had looked at them so many times before. They were eyes that looked at him usually full of admiration, enthusiasm, occasionally disappointment or defiance – eyes that rarely showed fear and always showed hope.

These young eyes, staring at Sherlock like a deer caught in the headlights, looked with only confusion; these eyes didn't know Sherlock's face or mind or life.  All he knew was that the man who gave him the eyes – who he had obviously escaped from much too quickly for that man to keep up with his cane – was his father and was calling his name.

'Sherlock, Christ's sake! How many times? Don't wonder off like that, where's your teddy?'

John picked up his son with a grunt and much difficulty and bushed him clean of the dirt he had been sitting in. The little Sherlock only giggled and grabbed at his father's arms, squeezing them and holding on as tight as he could, his adventure over and happy to be safe in John Watson's arms once more.

John turned to the ginger man his son had been harassing, 'Sorry about that, mate. He's just always running off, full of energy, take advantage of me' John laughed, a flash of sadness and some embarrassment passing behind his eyes as he gestured to his aching leg, 'You know how kids can be someti...’ he words trailing off as he looked at the red head for a little longer.  A small furrow appeared between John’s brows.

'Um, of course, it's fine… excuse me.' Sherlock got up from the bench and turned away from his best friend – his only friend, walking away as fast as he could, gracefully gliding away from the father with his child.  The chid had caught him off guard - for one of the first times in Sherlock's life, something had genuinely caught him off guard and had spooked him enough to cause him to run.

All plans of a reunion between he and John died in his mind at that moment.  All the words he had imagined he would say, apologis he would make; they all died on his tongue.

Suddenly he had to get away.  Sherlock had to leave before that small feeling in John, that small amount of recognition caused by looking into Sherlock’s eyes, could grow and spread inside enough that he knew where the feeling stemmed from.

Sherlock had to get away before his name could appear in John's mind and John would turn to look at the slender man racing away from him and think of his old roommate and, still, his best friend.

Before John could remember that the man who owned those eyes would not look at him again or smile at him and realise that no matter how many cases he tried to help the Yard with or try to live like he did when he was around Sherlock, his limp would not go away - the constant reminder of the incredible man that the world lost almost four years ago. That he was all alone with his son, and Mrs Hudson.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is generally known as word vomit.
> 
> Word vomit that extends from writing a multi-chapter in another fandom for too long and being crushed by ANGST.  
> It's also late and so I am extremely sorry on many levels - least of all my probably atrocious grammar.
> 
> Thankyou for reading, you're all lovely <3


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